


Then, so be it.

by Servem



Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Teeny bit of a slow burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-03-24 20:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13818438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Servem/pseuds/Servem
Summary: Oliver's last trip to the villa, and all the things he wanted to say.





	1. Yes, my dear. Later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I answered an ask [on my Tumblr](http://servem.tumblr.com/post/171059076583/okay-but-are-we-willing-to-talk-about-how) with one of my head canons about Oliver and it became this. I don't know what I want from this and where this is going. I don't even know how quickly I can pull it together, but I badly needed to get inside Oliver's head and this is me trying.

It was not unusual for me to travel with it. I had lifted it from my own office so many times that the obligatory dust outline that grows around old wall hangings never really formed. Sometimes, it wouldn’t even make it back to the wall right away. There were times when I returned from a trip and would leave it on my desk until I knew the custodians were scheduled to come in and tidy. Only then, would I be sure to replace it on the same empty hook on the wall where it normally hung, lest someone wipe his fingerprints off.

Though time and my own fingerprints had rudely written over his; all the better, in my humble opinion. Surely our commingled prints were better than the lonely fingermarks of a fifteen year old that, when he first hung it, could never imagine where the frame would end up in two years time. I could really get carried away with my own sentimentality if I allowed myself.

Usually I would keep it in my carry-on, but always tape and pack it carefully with cushioning. I didn’t need to pull it out and stare at it wherever I went. I’m not a complete lunatic. Most of the time, just knowing it was there was enough for me to feel at peace. This time however, I only packed it simply in a padded mailer envelope, in case I did need to have it handy at a moments notice. At the time, I didn’t think about what that meant, but I think I’d decided what I hoped it meant when I first inscribed my note on the back of the postcard.

I was lucky enough to pack light for this trip, only needing to bring my old duffel bag and my laptop. I had picked up a box of fine chocolates for Annella at the airport last minute, not wanting to show up empty handed. With her memory as delicate as it was, I thought sweets would be a safer bet than a more personal gift. In our correspondence, Elio had prepared me to meet her as a stranger, just in case. Though it stung to read, I was more saddened by the matter-of-fact tone of his words. Maybe I read it with the wrong inflection, but the impassive voice we use to discuss bad news becomes more commonplace as we get older. It was a natural mark of aging and I hated it.

I would gladly welcome gray hairs, softened muscles and crinkled skin around his bright hazel eyes. I would dig my heels in and wait around to watch the bright hazel become dull and gray, before I could stand to hear him speak of tragedies as though they were stock trends.

I spent the cab ride to the villa meticulously planning my robust and confident greeting. It had been five years since I’d seen him last and at least nine since I’d seen the old villa, and I wanted to return to it the way it remembered me. In many ways, I still felt like the same person from that first summer. I had arrived a loud and self-assured young man, and I had left a quieter, contemplative boy. I did not spend my evenings staring out at the endless sea to leave the way I came. This villa and the people in it taught me things about myself that I would never be able to thank them for. And so I rethought my entrance and decided instead to humbly wait for the villa to greet me. If this place taught me anything at all, it was that despite my tenacity, it knew better than I did.

When the car came to a stop, I had already bunched all of my things under my right arm, opening the door with my left and spilling out, legs first. The sun had been shining brightly all morning, but the sun here, right in this very spot, was already warmer on my skin than it had been in twenty years. I heard his footsteps before I saw him, and I was unwilling to turn around, choosing instead to savor the distinct sound of his lazy stride as he slowed to a stop. I was right to wait for the villa’s greeting in silence. I _had_ learned something, it turned out.

A mere five years had passed since our last meeting and I compromised with myself to drink in the picture those years had painted on his body, but only when he wasn’t looking. And he followed my lead, it seemed, meeting my eyes unwaveringly. Already back at our elegant game of careful indifference, except this time, it was a welcome familiarity.

“For your mother” I said first, extending the gift box out to him. It seemed he didn’t have a careful greeting prepared either. He took the box and smiled, simply. Lightly.

We walked along the familiar gravel path, mirroring my arrival the day we met. He didn’t ask about my wife and the boys, and I didn’t rush to update him. I learned long ago that his tightrope walk is never out of bitterness, only self-preservation. These were the clever moves of a obtuse man. I might have laughed before I realized he learned this silly game from me.

It was only meant to be one night, spent here at the old villa. A go-between after Rome and before Menton. I hadn’t even specified whether it was for work or pleasure. The assumption could easy have been made for work, but my luggage suggested otherwise, all by design. I didn’t intend to toy with him; not at all. Only to draw him out with questions that would be asked. And he countered with a coy timidity, meant to seem unassuming.

At least I could admit it to myself that he frustrated me to no end, and that I missed him, dearly. Even if he couldn’t do the same. Even if he never would.

Later, as he was setting my things down in the foyer, he cautioned, “Better tell her what’s in it,” handing me back his mother’s gift. Then even more gently, “she suspects everyone these days.”

I looked down at the box as it changed hands and nodded in silence. I had indeed misread his tone. The sadness in his voice was still of a young man who revered his fading mother. In that moment, I struggled to think of something that had ever been more bittersweet.

\---

I had to explicity direct my feet to walk away from my duffel bag.

_Right, left, right, left._

In my head, I knew that Manfredi would likely plop the bag down on our old bed. It was an innocuous thing that no one cared about but me. But even as I walked away, I could hear that pesky telltale heart, beating from within the bag, to the cadence of my heavy footfalls.

_Right, left, right, left._

_Thump, thump, thump, THUMP._

I willed myself to step lightly to quiet my clumsy metaphor. I still hadn’t decided how or when I would tell him about it, but what I did know was that the more I thought about it, the more likely I was to lose my nerve. I tried to put it out of mind as we ambled towards Pro’s old office. Annella was seated in there, wrapped in a quilt, reading an old periodical (perhaps the summer heat alone wasn’t enough to warm her bones anymore). The pages were worn and yellowed and I wondered for a moment if she sought out the nostalgia or if the paper was put in her hands to pacify her. Either way, no one was less deserving of memory’s cruelty.

“Mrs. P...” I offered gently, “I brought you some sweets-- I remember how much you used to enjoy these.” I said, opening the box to let her peek inside. She smiled widely at me and for a moment I thought myself important enough to be remembered. It was the same beautiful grin of her youth. She’d aged well, only in her sixties by now and it all served as an effective ruse. Her grayed hair was even styled elegantly, they way she used to do it with big barrel curls that fought against the tight, littler ones that sprouted from her naturally. Only it hung shorter now, above her narrowed shoulders. I searched her eyes, trying not to answer for her as my statement hung in the air like a question. But she simply patted my wrist and nodded absently, before returning to her time capsule newspaper. And I hid my broken heart, like I did so well.

 _Più tardi, Mamma_ , Elio added, possibly to soothe her and I both. Later, he was telling her. She could explore the chocolates, later. And she answered warmly.

 _Sì, mio caro. Più tardi, con il cauboi._ And she smiled down at her paper with a twinkle in her eye. I immediately searched his face for validation, a reflex I’d worked hard to avoid this soon into my visit. But he didn’t seem surprised, not right away. He continued watching her for an answer but she offered none, so he shrugged playfully.

“Later then, I suppose.” He said pointedly, with a wink at her. So my rude Americanisms would always follow me, then. They would travel with me from this life to the next. And I would gladly accept their company. I would take anything I could get from that summer as long as I could keep it.

\---


	2. Tireless Specters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver remembers everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, please thank [th_esaurus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus) for a number of great ideas and generous support. 
> 
> Also, somewhere in the middle of writing this chapter, I decided it was going to be particularly sad, probably sadder than the book. I apologize in advance.

“Signor Ulliva!”

Mafalda and Manfredi effortlessly pulled me out of my own head and brought me back to the old villa. They had become so deeply entangled in the identity of these cracked and bowed walls that it felt like embracing the structure itself, with a hearty kiss on both cheeks and a firm pat on the stomach.

_Have you eaten, yet? Can I fix you a late breakfast? A soft boiled egg, at least?_

I felt my brow peak at Mafalda’s mention of a soft boiled egg and I momentarily forgot myself, and Elio, and Annella and the framed postcard in my duffel bag. It took all my years of practicing self control to ask for a raincheck on that precious egg.

Because before I let myself be seduced the by villa’s nostalgic wiles, there was one more person that was owed a firm handshake and the warm hug that always followed. But he’d left this place years ago and the best that I could offer now was my respects. So we excused ourselves and took the scenic route, checking off boxes as we went.

_When I visited last, my son had skinned his knee here. My wife had admired your piano. I had rifled through your old scorebooks in the middle of the night while the house was sleeping._

All things I wanted to tell him, but didn’t. He had made it clear to me years ago that there was no room in his memories for tweaks and alterations so I wouldn’t add them.

I knew the way, but I dutifully trailed behind Elio, letting him lead. I seized the opportunity then to scan the back of his head, catalogue it, and add it to the meticulous records I’ve kept of him. He may have had a silver hair or two by now but none that I could find from far away. His curls, however, still sat neatly on his head, too short to bounce with his steps. Though he couldn’t know this, I had seen pictures of him from a time when he’d grown it long enough to form a few perfect ringlets and I regretted not being able to inspect them for myself. A chance to wrap one of his elegant locks, made into a perfect coil by nature, around one of my clumsy fingers, would have been an impossible drug to deny myself on my first visit. I almost laughed at the absurdity; that if his hair had been longer that summer, I would have fucked him sooner.

I wondered if my thoughts were loud enough that he could hear them, in the thick silence between us. It was a pity that he couldn’t.

“How’s the back of my head look? Old?”

Oh. Maybe he could.

“It’s bothering me how little you’ve changed. You need to bottle the air in this house and sell it in California. You’d make a fortune.” It was a graceless deflection considering I was already caught.

“A wise American capitalist, through and through.”

“That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever heard.”

He turned to me, breaking his careful veneer and gifted me with a genuine laugh, blurted out and unpracticed. Because he hadn’t been ready to laugh for me. And it was a glorious second in time.

I immediately felt cheated, having a regrettably short turn at it, before it was suddenly his turn to scrutinize me. But he didn’t look me up and down and ask me for flex for him, not my biceps at least. Rather, he wanted to know the things I cared to remember. He underestimated me still.

When he asked if I wanted to visit the belfry, rather than answer, I referred to the spot by his affectionate title for it. 

"To-die-for?"

He smiled at me. Was I winning? Who was keeping score?

We spoke of Vimini, and even though I didn’t want to I couldn’t stop myself, as though her tireless specter was compelling me from the plane where she lived now. She had committed herself to me in friendship at a mere ten years old, and to this day, I wish she could tell me why. Maybe even as a living breathing thirty year old, she still wouldn't tell me. 

In my short time with her, she had become an absolute zero for me. A sort of reference point where I could always check myself to see if I was straying too far from all sense and reason. In those moments that she allowed me to capriciously unravel in her presence, she would always punctuate my ramblings with wise, succinct replies.

 _And so what?_ She’d say in an accidentally comical squeak, hands on her hips, waiting impatiently for an answer. And not just any answer, but a damn good one.

It was a favorite pastime of hers to indelicately question the weight of the consequences I feared most, and follow it with a wicked giggle. But it wasn’t that she didn’t care. She always listened intently. It was simply the way my problems rolled off her shoulders and fell defeated in the sand. The short drop from the frail shoulders of this little dying girl made it all seem like things weren’t so bad.

 _Why are you so frustrated with Elio?_ She had asked early on, revealing to me right away that there was no point in being on my guard around her.

 _He’s a frustrating boy._ I told her with a big shrug to convince her. But she wouldn’t let me lie to her.

_Yes, he’s not very smart. He knows that only because I tell him. But he likes you. I don’t think he knows that, though._

I often envied her view, a comfy seat on the outside looking in, able to throw objective jabs in to entertain herself like a jolly commentator, shouting into a clunky headset at a football game.

 _Does he? You could have fooled me._ She rolled her eyes dramatically, exasperated by my immaturity. 

_Oh save it, Oliver. You know he does. And do you know what else? I think you like him too._

_You’re right, I do. Probably more than he knows. Definitely more than he likes me._

_I knew it!_

_You always do._

Hers was a mind that fascinated me. Her existence beside me wouldn’t allow me to torture myself with my troubles, legitimate or not. She lived happily, dressed colorfully in the irony of wasted potential and painfully unbothered by it. And she flipped a switch within me, urging me to trust him against my own nature, because she had sized him up years ago and deemed him occasionally worthy of the little time she had left on this earth.

After I stopped receiving her daily letters, the treasures of which I would cherish always, I wondered about the moment when she finally died. I wondered if she had been seated on her favorite rock by the water’s edge (where we often spent our time together) legs folded up neatly with her hands in her lap, her traitorous body humming as she reached enlightenment. I wondered if her oversized sun hat and tiny cardigan had gently collapsed into a pile as she ascended to Nirvana. I wondered if she was still taunting me up there whenever she pleased, to whomever would take her hand and listen. 

I had invited a large lump to my throat and I swallowed it loudly.

“I’ve kept all her letters you know” I said to him, trying my best to pull myself up from my sadness. He regarded me fondly, no doubt sensing my momentary slip into the past.

“I’ve kept yours too.” I added while I had his attention. He’d only looked into my eyes a handful of times since I’d arrived and I was getting impatient. What exactly I was waiting for, I didn’t know.

“I have all of yours too,” he countered, “and something else as well. Which I may show you. Later”.

The shirt. I looked away, unprepared to receive the nebulous thing I had been waiting for.

I threw my attention to the weather, of all things, trying to suck down my last few gasps of air in case he decided to drown me then in all my weaknesses. I suppose he decided he wasn’t ready to dispose of me yet and instead talked about Anchise. They had lost him a few years ago and he died in Elio’s old bedroom. I suspected that his spirit lingered here as well, finally able to watch and listen to everyone's whispers, totally undetected.

“Are you happy you’re back?” Looks like maybe he was ready to drown me.

“Are _you_ happy I’m back?” Nope, I still wasn’t ready. My back talk unintentionally disarmed him.

“You know I am,” He answered with reluctant confidence, “More than I ought to be, perhaps.”

 _Do you want to drown me or not?!_ I wanted to shout at him. Instead I answered meekly with a, “Me too” and accepted my impending doom. But he changed his mind again, probably enjoying my whiplash.

“Come, I’ll show you where we buried some of my father’s ashes”.

I freed the breath I was holding, the one I thought would be my last, because Elio had decided that I didn’t need it yet. After twenty years he was still unintentionally dictating whether or not I was allowed to breathe. If he was only pretending to be aloof he was doing a great job.

As we made our way down to the garden, I thought about how I had never mourned Professor Perlman in the traditional sense. I had suffered deeply, of course, when we learned of his death. I held my children tightly in my arms that night and hoped they wouldn’t suffer as deeply when I left them. However, I remember that moment in time as being surprisingly brief. Despite not been in close contact with him in the last few years of his life, I never stopped feeling his presence return to me frequently. In the months and subsequent years after his death, his guiding hand was still heavy and warm on my shoulder. At times, I thought I loved him more than my own father. Or rather I knew, and at times, I permitted myself to not be ashamed by it.

“This was my father’s spot.” He said, almost cheerfully, as though we weren’t standing in front of a man’s grave. A man we both loved.

“I call it his ghost spot. My spot used to be over there if you remember.” He added, gesturing to an area next to the pool where his work table used to be. There wasn’t a spot here he could point to that I wouldn’t remember.

“Did I have a spot?” I asked without thinking, a rare and often fatal mistake for me.

“You’ll always have a spot” he answered quickly, also without thinking. Or maybe he’d given it a great deal of thought and that caused the answer to spring forward by reflex. He raised his arm and pointed to our bedroom, or the room I still thought of as being ours. And he was quiet.

I relished in his poetic answer and before the inevitable regret of my indulgent question came, he spoke again.

“I know he would have wanted something like this to happen, especially on such a gorgeous summer day.” I smiled for a reason he couldn’t guess. He was so much better at guardedly deferring to the weather than I was. But it was his somber tone, calling out for a lifeline, that earned my patience.

“I am sure he would have. Where did you bury the rest of his ashes?”

It turned out that Professor Perlman was scattered all over the world. Elio mentioned that they had gone to the Hudson River, the Aegean Sea, and the Dead Sea, but he only came to commune with him here where we stood. He allowed me generous a moment of silence and I spent it wondering if Pro was enjoying the watery vistas of his final resting places, even now as we spoke of him. After a beat, Elio turned quickly on heel as he told me that he wanted to take me now to San Giacomo.

“Remember the way?” He asked, resuming his scrutiny of my memory.

“I remember the way.”

“You remember the way” he echoed. I remembered the way and he remembered our games. I had lost score but I don’t think I had ever made it to the lead. I hoped, in that moment, that he didn’t dare ask me if I remembered our favorite game. I would have been insulted. I invented it, after all.

“I’m like you,” I said, testing his boldness, “I remember everything”. Sometimes, Elio could draw an unexpected courage out of me simply by being a petulant nuisance. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to confess that to him.

But he stopped me with a look.

Upon first glance, he just looked angry. It wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary for me to have irritated him without realizing. But when his focus didn’t waver, I knew better. I had struck the very nerve I had been looking for. Whatever the score had been leading up to this moment, I had won in overtime.

I stopped myself before I could apologize, drop to my knees and beg him to call me Elio. I still wasn’t ready. Even the thought of such a moment made sweat prickle at my hairline.

“Come on,” I said in a hurry to keep myself from doing something foolish, “Let’s go see this spectacular view that you insist is _to-die-for_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the source material has ended and now it's all me. Wish me luck?


	3. Truths We've Run From

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These chapters seem to be getting longer as they go and I hope that's okay. It's taking some time for this long day to pass, but Oliver has a lot of thoughts, okay? Also, I apologize for any translations errors that occur. It's my best approximation! Okay on with it, then!

“Well?” He said, his wandering eye watching me in his peripheral. I openly examined his face in profile, with the few seconds I had, taking the time to notice the sharpness of his cheek in his soft smirk, under the pretense that I was trying to discern the meaning of his question. But I knew exactly what he was asking.

“Well what? It was nice.”

“Really Oliver? I counted at least four sighs from you up there. And all because it was _nice_?”

He wasn’t wrong. The belfry was absolutely breaktaking. But he was pressing me for a bigger reaction and I refused to let that rope slip through my fingers. I didn’t know if he meant to thaw for me yet, but our little dance of indifference had slowed nearly to a stop and I saw my chance to change the song.

“Would you believe me if I said it was beautiful? And that I’ll never forget that sight for the rest of my life?” I said robustly. Why did I think I was so clever?

“Why wouldn’t I? I don’t need convincing of that.” He answered with his guard down, amused at my ridiculous questions. He knew better than that but for the moment, didn’t seem to care.

“Because I’ve said as much to you before, and after twenty years, your skepticism is annoyingly alive and well.”

Would I pay for that? I was furious at my own timidity in that moment. I wanted so badly to lift my head, meet his eyes and reassure him that I didn’t mean it. That we didn’t have to change the song if he didn’t want to. But instead I stared at my feet angrily, as if they were to blame for leading me into my own trap.

When he said nothing, it was fear and not courage that brought my eyes up to meet his. Typical.

His mouth hung open, clearly fighting a smirk, and I sighed for a fifth time. Neither of us could hold back the laughter that came and we clumsily ambled back down the uneven gravel to smother it. He was being so gracious and I was relieved not have to explain myself. It unwound me so quickly that I nearly became suspicious of him. In moments like these, he never cared to put me at ease before-- how had he become so good at it now?

With the car in view, he slapped an open hand on my shoulder and my pace cut itself in half.

“Oliver, you’ll have to forgive me for my skepticism in the past. I know now that yours was no siren song.” He said with all the charm he could gather, firmly squeezing my shoulder with a confidence that was so beyond him it was almost laughable. 

“I hope so. I don’t have the talent for music that you do.” I said, unable to pass up a chance at the final word. It was biting and I knew it but he would not be fazed by it. He even went so far as to throw his head back in a half laugh, half grimace. Like he’d been shot in the chest by a child with an imaginary bow.

It infuriated me and I couldn’t even show it. He was happy in that moment with me and I was determined to leave my habit of self-sabotage behind me for the time being. The approximately twenty-five minute car ride back to Bordighera presented a welcome reprieve from our loaded banter. I relaxed enough to indulge in chit chat, refocusing my efforts on the point of this entire trip. Unfortunately, that meant admitting to myself that I had a point.

\---

We were thirty-seven and forty-four years old now, and Mafalda still clicked her tongue to scold us for being late for lunch. Elio didn’t seem to appreciate it and spared me a look of apology between her finger wags. But I couldn’t confuse it for anything but affection and I was grateful. I pulled her brusquely to my side with one arm and kissed her hairline with a loud smack.

“Perdonaci Malfalda, cheido scusa.” I said, speaking for us both. Elio rolled his eyes at my showy gestures and made his way to his seat, rather than watch her melt under my arm.

It was a generous helping of _spaghetti alle cozze_ , heavy on the _cozze_ that sat cooling at the table for us. Mafalda was as generous with her wisdom as she was with her garlic and the aroma alone was in open competition with the taste of the savory noodles. I started at it right away, working my way to the bottom of the bowl, neatly stacking my discarded mussel shells as I went. I worried briefly that Elio might have wanted to continue our casual chatter, only to be stopped at the distasteful sight of the butter balm that coated my lips and fingers. Then again, he probably knew not to disturb a dog mid-bite.

Sweating glasses of apricot juice sat for us on the table and I was silently thankful for the careful selection of my favorite memories. It was strange to see the juice at lunch instead of water or a white wine and I knew then that it was entirely in the spirit of sensory overload. I would have guessed that Mafalda was just spoiling me, but I could never rule out Elio’s involvement, even if he could. I recklessly thought back to Elio’s goodbye five years ago, with an empty apology about not being able to stop by for dinner and _feel nothing._. Yes, he could easily deny himself any involvement when it suited him.

I couldn’t justify the bitterness of my thoughts then. It was unfair. As we wiped out mouths roughly and excused ourselves from the table, my mood lingered and I tried not to hold it against him. His mother hadn’t joined us as she and Mafalda ate lunch privately in the study today. I hoped it wasn’t for my benefit but I didn’t dream of asking, and the buried question was a soothing salve on my pitiful mood.

“Feel like floating around in the pool? I won’t swim laps with you but I could suffer laying in the sun for awhile.”

I gave my gut a rub in large exaggerated circles, declaring it bigger than it was.

“Sure, as long as you excuse my belly. If I had known I wouldn’t have overdone it on the pasta.”

“Yes, you would have.”

“Yes, I would have.” I answered and we exchanged big, toothy grins before disappearing to separate corners of the house to change.

It felt remarkably strange to enter our old room alone, if only because I knew he was around the corner, electing to leave me to face the memories alone. Past the old heavy door, the illusory sight of gauzy streaks of sunlight illuminating buoyant specks of dust was almost unbelievable, until I spotted my duffel bag on the center of one of the twin beds. I took long impatient strides to reach it, finding my package at once upon opening the zipper, and I slumped onto the bed next to it in relief. I hadn’t even scraped a plan together yet but I was still comforted knowing it was there. Perhaps I was more the lunatic than I gave myself credit for.

I pulled on my green trunks and left my shirt behind, stopping into our old shared bathroom for a quick piss. Regrettably, I spotted myself in the bathroom mirror and realized I hadn’t been exaggerating my bloat as much as I thought. Though it was nothing I couldn’t suck in with a minimal effort, even still, I thought it better to leave my t-shirt on until I hit the water.

Once outside, I snuck up behind him without meaning to, as he was carefully searching for the perfect peach to steal from his mother’s generous trees. He plucked two and tossed one at me with a wink. I smiled and shook my head, walking back towards the pool. I wasn’t touching that one.

He had thoughtfully tossed two pool floats in for us, to warm in the sun. I eased myself into the water, taking my time to savor the cool rush on my legs before tossing my shirt behind me and plunging in. When I emerged, he’d already climbed onto his recliner float and was loudly lapping peach juices from a small bite, black sunglasses reflecting the afternoon light. He was a picture of leisure, with one leg dipped in water and an arm tucked behind his head. I squinted at him to hide the focus of my gaze, outwardly blaming the bright sun. Leaning across my own float propped up on both elbows, I distracted myself with a bite into own juicy peach. I was surprised at my restlessness so soon after sparring with him but I would throw the blame on Mafalda’s hearty lunch for my sudden burst of energy.

“You’ll get a kick out of this” I prefaced.

“Yeah? What is it?” He allowed, turning to me with interest. He should have just ignored me.

“There was this philosophy student my second year teaching on my own-- looked _just_ like you. It was a little uncanny”. I may have exaggerated there a bit but the boy certainly reminded _me_ of Elio. If the rest of the world agreed, I didn’t know.

His eyebrows moved in immediate disbelief. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to know more than he wanted to shut me up forever. He decided to egg me on instead.

“Go on…” he said cautiously and I mumbled a stunted chuckle into my peach. He softened a bit then.

“Oh don’t be silly!” I laughed dismissively, “He didn’t even finish the question before I shot him down.”

“He did make a pass at you!” He said excitedly to the blue summer sky, more of a statement than a question.

“Oh yeah. No shame whatsoever. And it was after weeks of bold compliments and suggestive jokes. He didn’t have a whole lot of tact.”

“Kids!” he said in jest, cheeks full of peach pulp that threatened to spill if we laughed any harder.

He had easily been a handsome boy, but almost as soon as he opened his mouth, he reminded me far more of Chiara than he ever resembled Elio. I’m ashamed to say that I only laughed off his flattery at first before actually turning him down. I blamed myself early on, thinking that my hesitation was a weak excuse for feeling good about myself. I quickly realized that I was simply examining a model of bold youth, asking him if all precocious boys were the same. They weren’t, it turns out.

The day he progressed from vague innuendo to clear suggestion, I was immediately resolute. It almost surprised me that I didn’t hesitate, that there was never a question in my head about what to do. What did surprise me was how quickly the words came to me. I had said something to the effect of, _Listen, you're beautiful, but you don't need me to prove that to you. You'll do better to find that out on your own._

And I had felt everything but regret when I realized those were the words I’d been searching for that summer. They never came to me, even in the seconds before I kissed him for the first time, unable to deny myself the pleasure any longer. I called and called for them but I was left abandoned on that berm with nothing to say in refusal, as he lounged, legs splayed and mouth open like a feast before me. I graciously left that last image out of my retelling of the story.

“It’s a good thing I caught you when I did,” he said, gulping down his last bite, “before you found the will to shoot me down too”.

He smiled at his own self depreciation before taking notice of my silence. The sudden realization of how quickly I’d reached my goal killed the laugh that he was waiting for. I had done what I came here to do. I had drawn him out into an open field, my rifle trained on the center of his chest.

Was I vicious enough to pull the trigger?

I decided that my hesitation alone was a bountiful kindness, and let out a measured, exasperated sigh. I was playing with my food.

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?” he threw out quickly. He had no defense because he had no idea what my problem was.

“Those words weren’t for you, you goose!” I hoped his affectionate title would stun him long enough to let the words sink in. It didn’t.

“Huh? You just said it yourself! That you wanted to deliver me the very same rejection.”

“And I couldn’t, Elio. Obviously, I couldn’t. Those words wouldn’t come to me then because they were never meant for you.” I said, punching the last word a little hard.

He said nothing for too long and I took what felt like my last chance to to speak.

“I was actually grateful for the whole thing.” He was immediately peeved. I quickly added, “That was the day that I stopped blaming myself for ruining your perfect life. Those words were within reach all along, they just weren’t meant for you, Elio. That wasn’t our truth.”

He was quiet, still, and instead of looking up, he carefully placed his dry peach pit on the center of his taut abdomen, able to balance it there easily with irritatingly even breaths. I chucked my half-eaten peach away, hard, hoping that it would spatter against a nearby tree trunk. But I didn’t turn around to see the outcome.

"How many times do you need me to prove it to you? Will I be writing poems to you forever? Always with the same words, only in different sequence?"

His chin jutted out to the side and his brows slowly shifted to tell me that he did not immediately understand, but the speed at which he looked away from me revealed his pretense. I knew before I even started that I was moving too quickly. That I could spook him if I didn’t move carefully, but I was more impatient than I had ever been and he would suffer for it. Having made up my mind, I worried out loud.

"I'm afraid I'll run out of sonnets before you realize that you changed my life that summer and I haven't stopped thinking about you since. That our truth was inescapable even then and that we were bound to collide, despite our feeble attempts at denying it. And that truth belongs to you and you alone, whether or not you'll have it."

I had dreamt before of throwing a cold drink in his face, once or twice. If nothing else, to stop him from spewing his easy prose and then looking up at me, innocently, as if to say, _Oops! Does that make me irresistible? I didn’t mean to!_

Violence wasn’t in my nature, but these hasty daydreams were, and they were always more dramatic than I intended. From the start, he had always fit right in them, perfectly. As though I’d spent my entire life before meeting him, tailoring a dotted-line figure in my fantasies, around the exact shape he would be at seventeen. And, upon meeting, he slid right into that blank space like a hand in a glove. If I were allowed a guess, I would say he lived the same way, with one foot always testing the temperature of imaginary waters of other lives. But ever since I called him Oliver, I couldn’t know whether I took after him or he after me. Or whether we had always been the same man, even before we met.

He was suddenly flustered and looked rightfully vexed with me at being accused of such ignorance.

"I know that!" he argued, as though it was something he hadn’t been running from since 1987. "I saw it in my dreams before I willed it into existence. But to believe it is something else entirely. Because then I would have to answer for letting you go. So don't make me."

And I looked at him, caught embarrassingly off guard, and recognized the blame Elio was cutting his own guts with. Because it was the one wound of mine that had never healed, despite all the pretty poetry that I used to bandage it up over the years. I had recovered from ever starting this in the first place, but neither of us were over the way it ended. Or didn’t end.

“Instead, you should have to answer for that feeble attempt at making me jealous. What a racket.” He argued, granting us both a moment to breathe.

“Did it work?” I asked as a quiet apology.

“Yeah.”

“Really!?” I spat out inelegantly.

“Yeah, I would have clawed his eyes out if I’d caught him in the act.” he responded in a deadpan.

“Were you always like this?”

The laughter rushed back to our scene as naturally as the tide comes in and I finally crawled up onto my reclining floater to lay on it properly. He’d side stepped me this time, but in my messy attempt to flush him out of his stronghold, I’d finally settled on a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all still with me, now that I'm flying solo without the source material. Oliver has a plan now and I think I finally do too. Let me know how I'm doing so far in the comments and thanks for reading. :)


	4. Then, so be it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver isn't used to fighting with Elio, but he is used to saying goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my friend, [th_esaurus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus): This fic would be nothing without you. Thank you forever.

Dinner had been a quieter affair than I was used to in the Perlman household. The dinner drudgery was usually on account of the guest, but today that was me, and I was helpless to change the mood of the evening. As was typical with memory disorders, Annella’s lucidity had faded by sundown and all I could do was try my best to match Elio’s energy. Though I sat in my own guilt throughout, I used the long silences during dinner to work through my plan.

After dinner, we’d chat and drink and with any luck, I would remind him that I still had his postcard of Monet’s Berm. I’d known all along that I had come here with the intention of returning it. But what I hadn’t decided was, exactly what I would say to him when he asked why. He knew, of course, that I had already planned to send it back to him, but with my son as his summer intern. When he rejected that outright, I decided I would return to the villa myself, postcard in hand. However, knowing Elio and knowing myself, the postcard wouldn’t change hands so easily. It would be a heavy weight passed back from me to him, and perhaps he wouldn't even accept it. Was I returning to him as well, along with the postcard and my inscribed confession on the back? Or was I simply returning it, like a video rental? 

_I’m done replaying it and I’ve rewound it back to the start for the next person that would like a turn._

I knew the latter would spring to his mind first. I knew because I'd think the same. But I’d decided by now how I’d answer. Maybe even before he asked. 

\---  


Dinner ended a painfully long time after it started, and we bid his mother an early goodnight, giving her the kisses she’d accept before needing space. Once Mafalda and Manfredi had already retreated to their part of the house, we took our wine out to the terrace, to soak up the moonlight for awhile longer.

After chatting about his work, to shake off the somber weight of dinner, he graciously gave me my opening.

“Your oldest, he wants to study antiquities as well? I certainly have the resources here for him but I’m afraid I won’t be much of a mentor. The best I can offer is the library and my own loose understanding of the classics. I think you just want to send him here for the tan, if I’m being honest.”

We had opened our second bottle by now and his cheeks had begun to flush. I wanted to know their warmth by pressing my own cheek, chilled by the night, to his.

“Don’t discount your own value as a mentor. You’re a professor’s son, remember? If that was enough to explain how you could recite Paul Celan to me at seventeen, it’s enough to mentor my very own _son of a professor_.” I said, lightly mocking his self-imposed title. And because I was a little drunk too, I pressed on.

“Besides, if it’s alright with you, I’ll join him here next summer. You asked me not to send him back with your postcard, so why not just come with it myself?”

He looked at me wide eyed, surprised that I’d skipped ahead to the end so soon.

“Oh you don’t have to return it, Oliver.” he said quietly, “I already know what it says.” If he was blushing from emotion, the wine had beat him to it. 

“Well his mother thought I should come with him, anyway. She thinks he’s still too young to travel alone”. And while that was true, I still wanted to return it. But not next summer, with my son in the next room. There would be no, _try again later_.

“How _is_ your wife?”

Why had I brought her up at all, and now of all times? She wasn’t even on his radar. I thought I wouldn’t have to tell him yet. I thought for sure he’d still be too sore to ask. But I had an answer rehearsed of course, to keep myself for spoiling all of this.

“Oh, she's well. Thank you for asking."

I didn't pause so long that I lost my footing, but it was long enough.

"The boys are in high school, fifteen and seventeen now, so we're right at the age we're losing sleep over them while they sleep until noon.” I smiled too widely, hoping it was enough to lead him away from the thought of her. It was, for the moment.

“Oh my god, how quickly time passes. It’s almost cruel.” He pressed the rim of the wine glass hard against his bottom lip, contemplating his statement. Alone, without me. His focus was far away, staring at the shadows on the lawn that would not be erased by the moonlight. He took too long to take a sip and I almost lost myself watching him get lost. The postcard would have to wait. I wasn't being fair to him or to myself.

I slid further down on the seat of the patio chair and tried to relax myself. I was scrutinizing his behavior too harshly, watching him too closely and he was going to catch me any minute now. That’s not how I wanted to go out. Taking a graceless gulp of my wine, I tried my best to look casual before Elio’s attention returned to me. I softened by mouth and dropped my shoulders. My heart responded by beating in double time. I let my thighs go a little slack, trying desperately to look calmer than I was. But I was beginning to hear the rhythmic pound in my ears now, as my body tried to tell me to stop fighting it. I submitted to it before I had a chance to consult with logic.

“They’re with her now, while I’m away, but they’ve been spending more time with me at my apartment this summer.” My heart rewarded me and stopped altogether. I’d actually been content to die right there and not hear his response. This was his least favorite game that I loved to play. Say the thing that begs a question, and another, and then another. He didn’t like to be drawn out this way, being made to ask questions, simply because I didn’t have the good habit of giving favorable answers.

“Oh did you rent a summer home on the island?” was the first question. A fair one.

“Oh no, just a two-bedroom. It’s actually a little closer to the university for me. It’s smaller than they’re used to but we’re outside so much in the summer it almost doesn’t matter. And their mother is a twenty minute walk away if they ever start to feel claustrophobic.” Try again, Elio.

“I don’t understand, she works twenty minutes away?” was the second question, and it was more apprehensive than the first.

I could see it all in his face. It was alive with questions and feelings he wouldn't share but couldn’t hide. My heart started racing again and I was nearly dizzy from the arrhythmia. Time to speak or die. It mortified me in that last moment, how much I was struggling at forty-four years old, to find a modicum of the courage he had at seventeen.

“No, No. Sorry. She stayed in the house. The boys are there most of the time, especially during the week. But they’ve spent most of this summer in my apartment with me. We’ve separated since I saw you last.” He did not wait at all before asking the third question.

“How long?”

“Officially, around ten months now. But she’d say longer.”

He looked like he might cry. Of course, only out of sympathy. Though, a small part of me wondered if Elio was capable of crying tears of joy at this moment. In reality, I knew he was capable of anything, but I couldn’t accept that such a cruelty could come from him. Could it? Maybe if I was capable of the thought, however unwanted and intrusive, maybe he was capable of the act.

“You never said anything.” he said, distantly. A chill crawled down my spine at the very same words that haunted me when I visited during Christmas. Did he do that on purpose?

“I know. I’m sorry--”

“No. You never said _anything._ ”

“Elio, I know. Whenever I tried--”

“You failed to mention that she ever _existed_ and then you popped in at Christmas to tell me you were going to marry her. And now it’s over and still, you never said anything!” He was shouting now and I felt small, stripped naked and brought before him for judgement. I didn’t expect the precision of his strikes and I was almost speechless.

But my pockets were deep and I dug all the way down to find the one thing I’d been holding onto for five long years. The thing that had saddened and perplexed me, and that I ultimately resolved to save for this very moment in time, so I could hold it up to his face like an unwelcome mirror, when he was finally ready to see it.

“You have no idea how disappointed she was when I came home that night empty handed.” I said, waiting patiently for more questions. Always more questions. Maybe I liked this game so much simply because I liked having answers more than I liked having questions. Who doesn’t?

“What night? What are you talking about?”

“After drinks? At your hotel? I came home and told her where I’d been and she was absolutely crushed at the thought that you had been within arms reach and had no interest in saying hello.” There it was. Your move, Elio.

“W-what? She knew about--?”

“No. Not in the way you think. But you should know for yourself by now. You should have allowed yourself to know her. If you hadn’t have been so afraid of me that night, afraid of tarnishing the memory of me at twenty-four, you would have learned why I couldn’t call my parallel life a coma. It was my boys. It was her.”

His face turned away from me quickly. I had carved a cross section of his life out of him, slid it under a microscope and asked him to look. And he didn’t want to see. Even in my present discomfort, I still wanted to thank him for his honesty that night. The truths he shared with me then, cleared a fog I didn’t even know I was standing in. He had a penchant for such miracles, it seemed.

“Listen, I understand okay? I was there. Maybe meeting my family would have ruined me for good. Maybe if you could keep me the way you remembered me, you’d never lose me.”

_And maybe if I’d never left we wouldn’t be having this unfortunate conversation right now. I know It’s what you want to say but won’t._

It was his turn to face judgement now as he looked back to me once again, this time his expression unreadable. We sat then, in the same soupy blend of emotions, swirling and moving between us. Both of us guilty, sad, ashamed, remorseful and something else that wouldn’t have a name until I spoke it.

“Please, believe me, I tried it your way. For a few years, actually. And then one day, I allowed myself to imagine you happy and..and it didn’t hurt. It actually felt better than missing you, just for the sake of keeping you in mind. And I even thought one day we could be friends. But when I saw you last, you told me there was nothing to forgive. Elio, you told me you’d prefer to meet them, and feel nothing at all!”

I sounded insulted and in a way, I was. It was he that sought me out at the university but he only wanted to exist in that day as a glancing blow on my life, and I wasn’t given a say in the matter. It was deeply frustrating. He had no words for me yet, relying only on the ferocity of his gaze to defend himself.

“I realized then that while I was naively hoping we could friends again someday, you were working your hardest to feel nothing when you thought of me. Of them.”

He looked up at me sharply, ready to argue. I expected it and braced myself. But nothing happened. He slumped forward a little, on the edge of the rickety patio chair, and shifted all the way back into his seat. He took a small, silent sip of his wine before placing the glass on the table beside mine.

“You’re right.” was all he said at first.

And then, “I’m sorry.” and he was silent.

I was unprepared for that. I picked my glass up from the table and roughly downed what was left, unashamed that I had nothing else to say and needed to fill my empty mouth with wine instead of words.

After letting me marinate for a moment in muted agony, he stood up and coolly placed a hand on my shoulder, looking down on me with a soft sincerity that I couldn’t be asked to reciprocate. I looked first at his long slender fingers, then up to his face, and my expression must have been wild. He allowed himself a laugh that was only a single breath long, and added a soft caress for my comfort. It was less than sobering and I felt my knots unwinding under his touch. Had we really just sat here, scolding one another over wine? He was right, it was ridiculous of us both.

“I am so sorry to hear you two have separated. Please believe me.”

We both looked up at the bright crescent moon to avoid having to look at each other in such close proximity. I didn’t want to know if he was lying and he didn’t want to show me either.

“I know. And I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you.” And I was. The moment she had begun to pick at the glue we’d bonded ourselves with, he’d been the first person I wanted to tell.

“It’s not any of my business. And I certainly didn’t leave you with the impression you could. Are you doing okay?”

“Yes, I’m good. And she’s good. I suspect that part of the reason the boys are spending so much time with me this summer is because she’s seeing someone. She doesn’t want me to know yet, but they’re terrible at keeping secrets, both of them. I don’t know where they get that from.”

I could see his shock at my casual tone and I decided to stop the game for tonight. He’d waived his white flag and swallowed his rebuttals. The very least I could do was save him the energy he’d waste on questions and just offer answers. And suddenly I was a broken hydrant in the summer, spewing out infinitely more than it seemed I could contain.

We talked as we made our way over the the apricot tree, feeling around for ripe ones in the darkness. We sat with our backs against the trunk and talked until the moon disappeared from overhead, moving past the tree line. I told him about the good years and the quieter years and I told him what it felt like to be losing someone that was standing right next to you. For many moments then, I permitted myself feel the weight of my sadness in front of him while I spoke of her. Perhaps I needed him to understand that I loved her then and I love her still. But not enough to be happy and not enough to bring her the happiness she deserved. I was unguarded as I processed it all aloud and somehow managed to think nothing of it.

“In the end, I can’t say that I’m anything but proud of her. She’s so naturally communicative. She’s the most emotionally intelligent person I know. We weren’t happy and she was brave enough to say so. And my boys inherited that from her. They don’t let me get away with sulking or embarrassment. My younger son, especially, always wants to know how I’m doing. I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

“You are. All you needed was time and you ended up taking my title as the _luckiest kid in the world_ ”. 

Our laughs boomed from our spot at the base of the staircase. I thought back to the moment on the berm, his special place, when I’d said those very same words to him. Envying his place in life. His seat as the Prince of Paradise. Wondering if I kissed him in that moment, if I could steal even a little bit of his luck for myself. I wondered now if he would kiss me again, to steal some of it back.

Our laughter settled and I looked down at him from the first step, poised to retreat to our bedroom, waiting for him to tell me whether or not he was coming too.

“Mm. Thanks for sharing all of that with me. I’m happier now, knowing your family a little better. I didn’t think I would be, but I am.” He gave me a tired, crooked smile. I couldn’t tell if the day had drained him or if I had done that all on my own.

“Thank you for listening. I didn’t think my visit included a complementary therapy session but I’m thankful, all the same.” Another quick chuckle to stall.

He didn’t let the rumble of my laugh end before placing a hand on the center of my chest, feeling the vibrations of it for himself. I stopped abruptly before he could savor it and the incessant thrumming of my heartbeat took its place under his palm.

“Goodnight, Oliver.” was all he said.

 _Goodnight Oliver,_ I wanted to say back. But he wasn’t coming to bed with me. There wasn’t any point, not anymore. So I decided to be an adult, and not embarrass myself further. 

“Goodnight.” I whispered and we parted ways. Like proper old men.

Once I’d shut the door of my room, I sought out the framed postcard right away. I didn’t want it to be mine even a second longer. It was time to hang it back up in its rightful place. The nail was still empty on the wall, waiting for its return. Even after my confession, he was done with me and I didn’t have the patience to be upset about it. 

I set it back on the wall and even considered wiping our fingerprints from it. I silently reprimanded myself for ever worshipping such a thing in the first place. They were smudges on glass and they wouldn’t ever be anything more.

I stepped back to make sure the frame was level on the wall, and nudged it to the left a little to get it just right. And I stared. And the longer I held the stare, the more the postcard blurred. I pushed the heels of my palms against my eyelids, hoping to will away whatever was coming up. But it was futile.

I rubbed at my eyes harshly like an ornery child and pulled the frame off the wall, tucking it back under my arm. If I had to say goodbye to Elio again, I’d start at the same place I started the first time. Besides, I’d taken such good care of this old, framed postcard, it could use a little sand in the corners. And so could I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point in the story, I was forced me to make decisions about Oliver and I hated doing it. I hope it all works. Tell me what you think. :)


	5. The Finish Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I think the finish line's a good place we can start_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It actually took me one hundred years to post this chapter and I'm not even that excited about it but I just couldn't let go of this story.

I made a sincere attempt to move quietly through the house, even going so far as to leave my shoes behind. I didn’t switch any lights on and and instead quietly felt my way around in the darkness with a wandering hand as my only guide. It would have been unfair to everyone if I had just stormed out in a huff. No doubt Elio would have heard me. I hadn’t even given him a chance to fall asleep before sneaking out in the middle of the night like a teenager, like he would have done then if his parents had been anything like mine.

I held my own leash tightly until I was just far enough from the house for my liking, picking an arbitrary spot on the lawn to shake off my restraints and begin stomping through each step, striking the dirt hard with my heels as I went. I reached the rusted iron gate, the very same one I used to be able to clear in a single bound, and decided to walk through it just this once. It’s tired, arthritic hinges whined loudly as I pulled it open, its chipped paint sticking to my palm, and I remembered then why I always chose to jump over it. The narrow stairway was dark and every stray twig or pebble was a buried landmine on my feet, my angry pace slowing to a sour shuffle as I reached the beach, calmer still by the time I was back in the moonlight. I took my time then and stepped through the wet, night sand like I had done on so many nights years ago.

I could always depend on a cool breeze on the beach this time of night, even in the late summer. The bugs didn’t linger here and the sound of the waves were always a welcome interruption to my loud and endless stream of thoughts. In the past, I would tell myself that I came here to clear my thoughts. But that’s just what I would tell myself. But at the first chance to tell him-- I couldn’t lie so easily.

 _I come here every night and just sit here. Sometimes I spend hours,_ I had said once to him, without prompt. Back then, it had just felt like it was time. Like the countdown on my lock box had expired and my secrets were unguarded, free for him to take. I confessed that I had spent long hours here thinking of him, and he accepted it without question. Maybe he didn’t believe me; I’d certainly given him no reason to. I wouldn’t even believe me.

He had, of course, assumed I spent my evenings in town, scurrying behind the tails of whatever girls had appealed for my attention that night. It was a perfect irony that I had been on the beach all along, right under his nose. We had been playing an addlepated game of hide-and-seek where both of us had hunkered down in our hiding spots, convinced the other was the seeker.

I walked directly past my favorite rock and decided to plant myself resolutely in the sand, letting the damp mound mold to my body. Tossing the frame deliberately, I hoped it would land upright by planting itself in the soft granules, but the sand was too damp to be so pliant and the frame stubbornly clattered on impact. I almost immediately reached out to it, but stopped myself, obstinately crossing my arms against my chest. I wanted to deny the picture frame and the postcard inside any further concern from me.

It stayed there, pathetic and discarded, as I offered my attention to the more deserving ocean instead. And similar to the way I used to, my eyes followed its ebb and flow without really seeing it at all.

I had always been remarkably adept at letting my most intrusive thoughts circle my periphery without ever reaching me. That summer, my heart and my body had decided on him long before I had bothered to pay him any mind. This summer, I came back with the focused intention of a confession, without confronting my own expectations. As it turned out, I hadn’t prepared for his soft and loving rejection.

In truth, I had deliberated about this trip a great deal before following through. But only about the details. The dates. The things that needed to be said. I had evaded the thoughts about why I was here in the first place. I didn’t need to know that. Coming back to him was compulsory. I had known for at least several years that it was always going to happen, maybe longer. It would just take me time to find my way back into the small space he’d saved for me.

And it left me here. Alone on the beach, angry with myself. All familiar territory.

It occured to me to ask Elio how he coped when I’d said no the first time. Maybe he could share some wisdom as a parting gift. I fisted the fabric of my shorts and brought my knees to my chest, letting a rough chuckle to slip by me. He shared my morbid sense of humor, perhaps he’d laugh too.

“What’s so funny?”

All the nerve endings in my face exploded at once. It felt like a car accident I'd been in once. I don’t know why I had such a reaction to his interruption. It was as though I was afraid he had heard my thoughts from his hiding place in the shadows. I wasn’t ready to explain myself and I hadn’t prepared a cool exterior to greet him with. My answer to his question was an embarrassing gasp.

“Oh my god, you scared the shit out of me!”

“Oh I’m so sorry, did you not hear me coming this time? I’m surprised!” He smirked at his own success in throwing me off kilter.

I gaped at him incredulously. Hadn’t we already said goodbye? What was he even doing here? Again, he had a cool reply.

“Isn’t this what we’ve been doing all day? Walking the paths of our residual spirits?” He waved his hands like a cartoon specter and smiled again at his own words.

“Not on purpose, Jesus Christ!” I spat out, bristling.

Slapping a theatrical hand over my heart, I tried to will myself calm. My face had only just started to cool from the excitement.

Unfazed, he leant down and slid a warm hand across my back, from my left shoulder to my right, and led himself down to sit beside me in the sand. I quickly promised myself that if he moved to kiss my neck like he did the first night he found me here, I would forgive everything. But he didn’t.

“Well, maybe not on purpose,” he agreed, “but here we are.” And he was right. Here we were, again in a new version of an old memory, still afraid of what comes next.

“Except for that, that’s new.” He added, dropping his hand from back and gesturing at the frame, face down beside me.

Shit.

There was a wave receding back into the ocean and I imagined myself picking up the frame and tossing it into the disappearing water, like a vagabond catching a speeding train at the last second. I hadn’t planned for any of this and I didn’t have any words to explain myself. There wasn’t any point. It was already over. I could feel his gaze move away from the frame and up to my face, waiting.

I conceded.

I kept my eyes low and distant, reaching for the frame and placing it face up in his lap.

“The postcard? You brought it with you after all?” He was suddenly gentle and far less cocky than he’d been only a moment ago.

I didn’t have an answer to offer so he graciously filled in the silence.

“Don’t worry I can take it back, it’s alright.” He pressed his lips tight into his usual courtesy smile, but all I saw was a grimace.

“If I’ve learned anything tonight, it’s to stop tending so carefully to your ghost spot. I’ll hang it right back on the wall, even.”

His sorrow was unashamed, if a little unclear. He had chosen to say goodbye after all, could he be sad that I was still chipping away at his precious memories? My thoughts hadn’t formed all the way and I was still unsure about what I even wanted anymore, but for a second I felt bold and uninterested in my habitual impulse denial.

“Am I dead, then? Is that what’s made me worthy of a ghost spot?” I’d only felt enough impulse to say it, not enough to look him in the eye and say it.

“I used to think so, yes.” He hung his head a bit at his own admission, reaching down between his legs for the picture frame, already peppered with a layer of sticky sand. We both looked down at the postcard, it’s face blurred by the moonlight’s reflection on the glass. He turned it over and began to pluck at the metal grips that secured the backing of the frame.

“Until a few years ago, when you told me about your note on the postcard.” I watched him carefully extract the old card, still thick and rigid despite its age. “And there it is,” he added, smoothing a light finger over the words I’d left there for him.

_Cor Cordium._

His own words that I simply repeated back to him had somehow become a spell we’d unwittingly cast on one another.

“That day, I realized that I had spent nearly fifteen years doing exactly what my father warned me against.” I didn’t try to guess what he meant and he knew I wouldn’t ask.

“I had decided then, maybe before you even left, that I would only ever have you in my memories and in my dreams. When you left, you died. And so did I. I decided that we would go on, making the best of life after death and accepting what little was left after that.”

I straightened my legs out before me and looked away from him. He wouldn’t come to meet the boys because he didn’t want to know me as a father. As a husband. He didn’t want to ruin his memory of me. And I let him go a second time, this time out of respect for his wishes. The first time, I had been the fool-- thinking he would be better off with someone else. I was scared. He gave all of himself to me so freely and I was undeserving. I could not promise him then that I wouldn’t turn out a villain. I knew that there were others out there in this world that could offer Elio more than I ever could.

“I didn’t-- I couldn’t.”

“I know.” He soothed. I wanted to say it all at once. Tell him that we weren’t dead. Tell him how much life I had seen ahead of us when I decided to return the postcard to the villa.

“I’m so, so sorry, Elio--,” was all I could force out. I opened my mouth once, then again, but I couldn’t compel the words to come out. I was surprised at myself, and I was sure that we was too. I swallowed the lump and it squelched in my ears as it trickled down and away from my throat. I refused to let it derail me.

”You don’t have to be sorry, Oliver. You couldn't have known-.”

“No it’s not that.” I patted the sand in front of me down in frustration. I felt like a whimpering toddler searching for words not yet known. What a time to be tongue-tied.

“Then, what is it?”

It was nearly surreal to reach this moment. I chastised myself for my inelegance. I had carefully carved a pristine path to send my sled down the snow capped hill, only to hit a bump and tumble headfirst down my perfect chute. I made it down the hill, but not at all the way I intended.

Despite this, I strolled into the fog of what may come and let the fugue state take over. Before him, I could let myself tumble.

“I am so sorry for what I took away from you. From us.” I was far from my point and purpose, but he gifted me with a small and honest nod anyway. "I was scared and selfish then, and I didn’t think for a second that you wouldn’t find someone else to--” I stopped myself, this wasn’t what I wanted to say at all.

“Elio. I didn’t come back simply because my marriage failed.” His stare was bright and focused in the moonlight, never leaving mine. His eyes were always so fleeting and I openly savored his unbroken focus.

“I always knew that I would find my way back to you. There was never any letting you go. I’m just so sorry it took this long.”

And I was defeated. I wanted to say so much more. I wanted to tell him that we were still young men. That we hadn’t died and that I wasn’t here out of convenience. But couldn't bring myself to risk a glance to his face. Instead, I watched myself drill rigid fingers into the sand, burying them to mid-knuckle.

He didn’t answer for a long time. Part of me thinks that was my penance. I didn't know Elio to be afraid of a little spite.

I could almost hear him: _Suffer for a minute, the way I did for weeks, when a kind word from you would tide me over for days._

“I think I’m done, Oliver.”

And I didn’t for a second blame him. He deserved peace.

“Okay," I said, and meant it, " We can be done with this.” And I was happy to finally know what Elio wanted and to be able to give that to him. Nothing could make me happier.

“I think our parallel lives have run their course. You tried to tell me once before, and I didn’t listen.” I looked up at him and found him grazing the stubble on his long and narrow chin with the tips of his fingers. It reminded me of the studious and concentrated expression his father carried when we used to pore over my manuscript in his study. I wished then that I could call him and tell him how brutally his son was paying me back in heartbreak.

“I’m disappointed that it took us both so much time to understand. I would never have even realized it if it hadn’t been for--” He trailed off pointedly and stared back down at the postcard in his hands. He was speaking in code and I wasn’t following.

“Realized what?” I asked too eagerly. I had done what I came here to do and he had made it clear that this is where things end. If he was looking for forgiveness, there was nothing to forgive. 

“I realized that this earth is round, Oliver. You draw lines in the sand and eventually, if you live long enough, they converge. I should have met your family that day. I won’t make the same mistake again. I want to be in your life, any way you’ll have me, my old friend.”

Elio had no talent for surprises with me; I could almost always read his thoughts as though the were scrawled across his face like the script on his sheet music. And yet, twice today I had turned a corner with him and run into a wall.

“What?” I asked at the end of a long exhale, “You’re okay with this? With--” and I could only finish my thought with a pathetic, crooked finger, landing in the middle of my hunched chest. Had we really made it to the end of our respective comas? Our magnetically repelled parallel lives?

He offered me a somber smile, harder to read with every passing second, and I could scarcely make a guess at what expression I was sending back.

Elio would never stop being a mess of contradictions. He would never stop being the open soul I blended with my own to never be the same again. He would always be my future, present and past.

He said he was done, and I finally understood. My heart and body were tired and all I wanted was to return home, wherever he made it. I felt no rhythm in my chest when I reached my hand out and took the sharp point of his chin between my thumb and forefinger. My heart may have already stopped by then, and I decided that if this was the afterlife, then I had done something right. His breath was warm on my thumb, against the breeze of the midnight. The corners of his dark lips began to curl into a sinister smirk and I knew that I'd stopped to savor the moment for too long. I pressed my mouth to his brusquely, if only to hide from that grin. And then softly, as the taste of him welcomed me home. It’s like he’d known all along that we would end this day with our lips together under the curious moon. And I didn’t want him to be smug. I just wanted him to be mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for letting my writer's block carry me so far away but I am so thankful to [@th_esaurus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/) for not giving up on me. Thanks as well to everyone that's stuck with the story! Let me know what you think!


	6. A Good Place We Could Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take a deep breath, take in all that you could want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to the Finish Line by Snow Patrol when I decided how their story should end. Recommended listening. 
> 
> If anyone's interested, I'll post the timeline I used that was as canon-compliant as possible. 
> 
> Here's the last chapter folks, thanks for sticking around!!

When you spend an afternoon in the sea, your body learns what it’s like to be weightless, tossed about by the waves with a fat gulp of air packed tight in your chest– just in case you succumb to a humbling slap from the water. Better safe than sorry. No matter how strong the swimmer, it’s never anything but a carefully controlled panic to stay ahead of the sea's whim. If you survive long enough this way, you forget what the quiet peace of safety feels like. You forget you were holding your breath at all.

When the sea is done with you and finally allows you to take your rest from her, she doesn’t simply let you forget her. Maybe your rest comes under the shade of trees on the beach, or maybe you make it all the way, to the comfort of your own bed. Once you reach the quiet peace of safety, her ghost finds you and reminds you what her waves felt like. Your body re-lives very clearly the now gentle rock of the water, in the serenity of a place you feel safe. And you breathe without pause, because the only thing that you will succumb to here is the restful sleep of the weary water treader.

When Elio welcomed me home, he induced the unshakeable weightlessness that follows a controlled panic. I wondered how long my quiet peace would last until I reminded myself to stop holding my breath. I had made it home safe, after all.

\---

 

We hadn’t given ourselves enough time to properly secure the postcard back in the frame. Elio had just given up and was carrying it in pieces under his arm.

The way back to the villa was even darker and more hazardous than the walk to the beach, and I kept myself tethered with a hand spread widely between his sharp shoulder blades as he intrepidly led the way. He knew the path better, anyway. But for all my excuses, it would always be this way. The two of us, fumbling forward in the dark propelled only by Elio’s fearlessness. I couldn’t help but enjoy the feel of his bones under the pads of my fingers. He pretended not to notice my probing.

We hadn’t behaved ourselves before he decided to leave the beach. Not like the first time on his precious berm. My bottom lip still pulsed from the memory. I had felt a momentary guilt at the wet glide of my tongue across his supple mouth. It was always unnaturally soft, always bright and red, like he was either coming from or going to a passionate kiss. Mine were usually chapped and rough, but he’d make sure to leave them raw and glossy when he was done with me. The man could make an artform out of anything that he was even mildly skilled in.

We both shuffled barefoot across the lawn, still quiet and careful. I dropped my hand from his back to let him walk freely without my trailing so closely behind, a mistake he didn’t even have to speak about to correct. He simply extended a hand behind him, the absent minded way a mother beckons her child before crossing the street, and I slipped mine right into his without question. He’d be leading me around from here on out. It seemed that even a moment of interruption in our intimacy was too long. I was overwhelmed by him.

I craved castigation for leaving in the first place. For starting a life without him. He couldn’t be bothered with the nonsense of that and pulled me along with an irrefutable conviction. I wanted only a drop of his confidence. I wanted to be him, even back then. For all of his confusion about me, I was never confused about him. He could speak his truths to me, not without fear but in spite of it, and it would make my jaw lock with envy. Is this how he felt about me? Did he watch me rebuff everyone around me and call it confidence? All along, we’d been even more alike than I realized.

Inside our bedroom, his long stride carried him quickly to the old writing desk. He placed the deconstructed picture frame and postcard down gently, no air of urgency about him. I knew, this time, to guide the door closed until it latched; though the moment would have probably survived an accidentally slammed door.

The shutters were closed and I made no motion to flip the light switch. I was happier to find my way by touch alone and he seemed to agree, moving closer to me more slowly than he had all day, hands out towards me as though they were antennae. As though he could use them to feel the most minute shift in pressure, ready to lunge at any sign of retreat.

I reached his forearms first, skimming the wispy hairs all the way up to his elbows and leaving his skin tight and his hairs bristled. He didn’t move at first, allowing me a gracious moment to drink him in with my remaining senses. Stepping in even closer, I could smell the beach on his skin and in his curls. I needed more-- and every fucked up thing I blamed for holding me back was gone. There was no one else in the world but he and I prayed that soon, even that would blur.

I finally allowed myself to reach out, to cup his cheek and let his sharp stubble resist my palm. He didn’t soften against me. He made sure I knew this wasn’t a tender reunion.

I first felt his fingers wrap around my elbow, and then his thumbs dig hard into the crooks of arms. Each found the cluster of veins on the first try, slowing my circulation flood down to a trickle. The numbing pin pricks spread across my hands and I was rigid, afraid to so much as exhale. He spoke first, before I had a chance. He was leading me by the hand, still.

“Elio”, he breathed, pushing it out in an almost hiss. He pressed his thumbs even deeper now and it hurt. He was pressing his name down through my skin and into my blood. I shut my eyes sharply and relished the sting, letting breath after humid breath pass in the space between us, until we needed the oxygen. The last of my restraint wasn’t needed.

I snatched my arms out of his grip and pulled him violently to my chest by the collar of his cotton t-shirt. Pressing my knuckles against the hot skin of his neck, I left almost no space between us when I answered with my own name, spoken loudly enough to vibrate against his mouth. As though I were calling out to him from across the room.

“Olive--”

My name was lost in his mouth and his hands were lost in my hair.

I could feel myself pulling at his collar, not knowing how to let go of it. I was sure I had destroyed the neckline and was about to tear it completely open. He threw himself into me, and my hands finally dropped and wrapped around his whole body at once. I wanted to remember everything I thought I had lost forever. His shoulders were broader, his muscles firmer, and he was stronger than he was at seventeen. Or he was using more force to hold me in place. It was new, either way.

I don’t remember when he pulled my shirt over my head, but I remember the feel of slender fingers combing through the hair on my chest. He was rough with me everywhere he touched me; pulling cries out of me before my clothes were even off. I explored his neck with lips and teeth, making no effort at a gradual build. He made a desperate, keening noise that I felt rumble through his skin of his throat and I couldn’t contain myself.

I fell at once to my knees without asking permission. I couldn’t even let him lead just this once without upending it all. Even so, he clawed eagerly at the skin on my wrists as I frantically pulled at his belt. He button came easily undone for me and his cock fell right into my waiting hand, already as hard as it could be. I groaned at the sight of him, swallowing him whole on the sound of it.

It was as much my ecstasy as it was his. I savored the weight of him on my tongue, the press of his head against the roof of my mouth, against the back of my throat. Stroking him firmly, I pushed shy drops of his precome out, delicious on the tip of my tongue. Did he miss the obscenity, too? I cautioned a glance straight up at him and watched his face twist in agony.

Lost in the act and unable to deny myself any longer, I was startled when hands came down on my shoulders abruptly.

“Stop!”

I let him go immediately with and even pushed him a few inches away so I wouldn’t have to strain to look up at him.

“Did I hurt you?” A moment passed with only pants and breaths heard between us.

“No. No, not at all, I just—“ he stopped and didn’t have an answer. He only looked away from me, chewing his lip while he thought up a good answer. It was my turn to be smug.

I smiled up at him with all the pearly white teeth in my mouth and he scoffed, unamused.

“ _Please_ , shut up.”

I lifted my hands in defeat and mimed a locked mouth, half-heartedly fighting the laugh. His face was suddenly serious when he spoke next.

“Get up. Stand up for me.”

His hooks sunk back into me easier than a fish’s cheek. I shot to my feet and his hand was between my legs before I could catch my balance.

My blood was roaring in my ears and I couldn’t form a clear thought. His touch was everything I’d been waiting for; for years, the memory of it kept my head above water when I could have easily let myself drown. I began to hunch over him, nearly incapable of staying upright, mumbling pathetic things into his shoulder as he unzipped me, running his fingers down the front of me and cupping me in his teasing hand. His patience was maddening when all I wanted was to fall apart at his hand, on his cock.

I rudely intervened, letting my shorts fall beside his on the ground. He chuckled softly at my restlessness and I didn’t blame him. I was too eager to be taken seriously.

“I wish you’d been this forward the first time” he sighed, lips pressed against my ear, “it would have saved me some awkward fumbling.”

I pulled back slowly and found his bright eyes in the darkness. I could see the naked tension in there without needing any light. We’d made it all the way here and he still didn’t understand.

“That night--” It took everything I had to even find the words, “Listen. The first time we were together, I abandoned everything I thought was right to be with you. I was so sure I was in the wrong, and I still couldn’t stay away. I was fighting against you, and against myself the entire time. Even when I let go that night, by morning I was sure I had ruined you.” his hands dropped to his sides and his back straightened, sobered.

“Right now, Elio? Right now I know that there is nothing more right--” I reached for his face and spoke with care, “Right now, I want you. Tonight. Tomorrow. As long as you’ll have me. And nothing about that will ever scare me again. Take me if you still want me.” 

I was begging shamelessly.

“Please.” was all that was left, and it dissolved against the bare skin of his shoulder. He surprised me when he stepped away slowly, into a pool of moonlight by the bathroom.

“Don’t move.”

Don’t move? I could barely breathe!

He disappeared quickly into the bathroom and crashed into the wooden cabinet in the dark, reemerging a second later to stride up to me in a few quick paces. He said nothing, but pressed himself flush against me, his bare cock up against the fabric of my briefs.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He answered, slipping a warm hand down my back, under my waistband. He gripped my ass hard, pulling me apart just a little. His other hand was closed in a fist around a small bottle, and I was relieved.

“Oh!”

“Is this okay?” He opened his hand to show me the unmarked bottle of oil.

“You read my mind.”

He pushed my underwear down my thighs and we walked backwards towards the bed, nearly tripping when I couldn’t shake the briefs off my ankle quickly enough. He tossed the bottle onto the bed behind me, freeing both hands to knead the curve of my ass, parting me rhythmically. I ground my hips against him on beat, and wondering briefly if ours was the time signature of a classical tune.

His whine caught in his throat when I sheathed my fist around him. When he composed himself and started to quiet, I added the oil and he happily purred again for me. He was impossibly slick in my hand, smelling sweetly of lavender, the contents of the bottle no longer a mystery. His brows were peaked as he drove his hips forward and fucked into my hand. My mouth watered at the urge to bend over for him right then. He had fucked me once or twice before and, to date, it hadn’t been enough. 

We were shaking, too excited and too emotional for any sort of demure lovemaking. He moved behind me to coat his fingers. My hand slipped on the bedpost, scrambling for balance when he brought a slender finger to me, pressing inward easily. It reminded me what it was like to touch myself and imagine him. It had been so long since I’d indulged the fantasy, and I almost cried to think I didn’t have to anymore. His exhalations were hot against my back and though his ministrations were maddening, he was too far away.

“Oliver. Oliver, Oliver.” I wanted to be closer.

He read me for exactly what I needed, guiding me onto the bed on my back, my whole body open before him. He settled himself between my legs and I pulled him even closer by the waist, hungry. But he would not be rushed, and I watched him sweep the hair from my eyes with such tenderness that it stilled me. When he pushed himself into me, and I made no noise. I couldn’t reconcile the act with the dream. Was this really happening? Was he finally back, moving inside me? The momentary sting assured me of the reality of him, and I snaked my legs around him, welcoming the sting of reality.

“Elio.”

It took nothing at all. A clumsy stroke between thrusts, his soft suckle on my neck, my fingers teasing his hole-- until we were in a state of mania. I heard the familiar cry just before he lost himself, bursting inside me, his body slipping further down with each dying thrust. I was euphoric at the sight of him, relieved to be a coherent witness. But he was merciless, wasting no time before sliding my aching prick into his mouth and pulling my climax out of me and down his throat. It was a sip of cool water in the desert and I could not be ashamed by my lecherous satisfaction.

His face was flushed and damp with sweat when he rested it on my thigh, eyes sharply watching my cock soften on my belly. He smiled up at me, huffing with an open mouth.

“I’m sorry, that was definitely too fast.”

I laughed with gusto and his cheek bounced where it lay on me. He crawled up to my side and held himself up on his elbows.

“I’m sorry too,” I offered, “We can try again, if you’d like. We have the time.”

His mouth fell open at my proposal.

“Oh my god. I’m almost forty! I’m not the spry, young man you remember, apparently.” He was laughing now too. It was impossible to be anything but smitten with Elio. I should know, I gave it my best shot.

“Yes you are!” I shot back, appalled.

“Oh no, I’m definitely not.” I leaned up to him, tipping his chin up to meet mine.

“Yes. You are. You are every single thing I remember, and more than I could ever ask for.”

He kissed me softly. He kissed me sincerely. And I was floating, with the ghost of the seas waves, rocking me gently in place. My panic, my years of surfacing for seconds of air were gone and already forgotten. I was home with my quiet peace and I breathed freely. 

\---

 

He was awake before the sun; I could feel his cold fingertips grazing my stomach like piano keys, playing a tune only he could hear.

My shoulders cracked loudly with my stretch, and he smiled down at me, his chin against my hair. We made small, lazy complaints under our breath for awhile before either of us actually spoke.

“You know what?” I asked, staring up to the ceiling at my epiphany.

“What?”

“I don’t feel like getting any exercise today. I think I’ll just wait for Mafalda to drag us out of bed for breakfast.” The top of the bedroom walls were painted by the first pink streaks of the morning, and I could stay in bed with him forever.

He gave me a small chuckle and said nothing, but pulled my head in closer to pepper my hairline with quiet kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm done!! Thanks for coming along for the ride! I have an epilogue that I've written but it's very cheesy and I still haven't decided whether or not to add. 
> 
> As for their story, this is it! - "I think the finish line's a good place we could start". :)
> 
> Let me know your thoughts and thank you for reading!


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